by Joyce Cato
‘Oh yes. I told my gardener, we must have asters. I’m judging the roses myself this year,’ he added smugly.
Vera snorted. Oh yes, he was judging the roses this year all right, and didn’t the whole village know it? For the last twenty odd years or so, Millie Fletcher had always judged the roses and was an acknowledged expert on the subject, albeit in an amateurish sort of way. And then, suddenly, Ross Ferris had nosed his way in. Vera heard that Sir Hugh had put up a good fight for Millie, but in vain. Especially when Ross had cunningly introduced to the village committee the possibility of donating a Ferris Rose Cup in the future. Gold he said he was going to make it, or so they said. The big show off.
‘Ah well, that’ll be easy,’ Vera sniffed, hijacking the conversation. She’d never been able to avoid making mischief when the chance arose. ‘Sam Dix’s entry is bound to win. Everyone’s saying so, so you won’t have much work to do, Ross.’
She saw him wince, and smiled happily. Not only did she refuse to call him Mr Ferris, she also knew that she was getting at him, even if he wasn’t quite sure how himself.
‘Oh, well, we’ll see,’ Ross forced a laugh. ‘After all, I’m the judge, so I get the final say.’
Vera felt a sudden twinge of misgiving as she realized that she’d probably just done Sam out of his first-prize rosette. She could easily imagine Ross Ferris giving it to another entry just to spite her and declare his independence against the prevailing consensus of opinion.
‘It’s my James who’s got the biggest problem, I’m thinking,’ Wendy Davies put in quickly, sensing the antagonism arising between them. ‘He’s judging the dahlias this year. There are so many entries and all of them so good. Everyone’s buzzing to see who wins.’
Ross turned to her, his eyes suddenly sharpening. ‘Really?’
Uh-oh, thought Vera. That’s torn it.
‘Oh yes. But James is always scrupulously fair.’ The vicar’s wife gave a slight laugh, ‘Even though the bribes have been coming in thick and fast.’
Ross blinked in astonishment. ‘Bribes?’ he asked, his eyes avid.
Wendy smiled. ‘Well, Robbie Broadbent suddenly offered us the best of his cowslip wine the other day. And Mrs Watkins came over with some early apples. Her tree always does fruit first. Then there was Brian Rapton’s offer to fix that broken pew in the church. He’s a marvellous carpenter, you know, and his pom-pom entry really is a contender.’
Even the innocent and naive Wendy began to sense that something was wrong and slowly her voice trailed off. She shot the grim-faced Vera a questioning look.
‘So, dahlias are where the action is this year?’ Ross mused, and quickly glanced around. ‘And where is the vicar, Mrs Davies? I thought he was in here a moment ago.’
Wendy, suddenly cottoning on, looked alarmed. ‘Oh, he’s already gone to the flower tent, I think,’ she said, then added quickly, ‘but Sir Hugh doesn’t like judges swapping classes right at the last minute.’ But she had to call the last few words to his already retreating back, and then bit her lip.
‘Oh dear. Poor James.’
‘What’s up?’ Monica Noble asked, having come back into the tent and catching Wendy’s lament. Carole Anne, having spotted her mother with refreshments had waylaid her and nabbed the booty, hence her return for more liquid sustenance. ‘Another glass of squash please, Mrs Gant,’ Monica ordered philosophically. ‘Is James having difficulties?’
‘Oh, no it’s nothing,’ Wendy said vaguely, going towards the water bottles before Vera could move.
‘That man’s a menace,’ Vera said grimly, and explained what had happened to Monica, who did her best to pour oil onto troubled waters.
Wendy sighed and felt her head swim. It was so hot. And she’d had a headache all day. She really wanted to go home. She didn’t need these petty upsets and all these stupid people. But of course, she couldn’t go home. Even now, another customer was walking in.
A strange fellow, in a suit of all things.
James Davies had just managed to disentangle himself from the clutches of his needy parishioner, when once again he found himself being hailed. He’d just gone past the second-hand bookstall when Ross Ferris caught up with him.
‘Ah, Vicar, there you are. I was just wondering if I might have a quick word.’
James looked around for escape, but for once there was no one within earshot who might come to his rescue. He took a fortifying breath.
‘Mr Ferris,’ James beamed, turning head on to face him. ‘What can I do for you?’
In the flower show tent, Sir Hugh glanced around the small group of wandering spectators, and once again checked his watch. Damn it, where was everybody? The judging was due to start soon and he liked to keep to the schedule. The kiddies’ races were due to start promptly at 3.45 p.m. and he was slated in to award the egg-and-spoon prize.
He’d have to slip out now if he hoped to catch Gordon Trenning. Damn the man, why hadn’t he sought him out before this? The scientist must have guessed where he’d be. As chairman of the flower show he wasn’t likely to be anywhere else but in this tent.
Sir Hugh, always punctual and strictly a to-the-letter man, didn’t care for this modern, casual way of doing things. If a man said he’d meet you, he should keep his word. Besides, he was itching with impatience to see what Trenning had for him. He’d sounded quite excited over the phone the other night.
Sir Hugh heaved a sigh. Well, if the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed… .
Over by the gladiola displays, Malvin Cook made sure that the last finishing touches to their entry had been completed. At the last minute, he’d lightly sprayed their lovely Woodpecker exhibit with water, pleased at their lime-green and red patterns. They were lovely, and the spray perked them up just right.
He went on past the other gladiola displays, smiling at the small blooms, the less intense colours, and then stopped dead in front of a display of pure white blooms. They were beauties. Real beauties. A look of sudden and intense hatred shot across Malvin’s normally placid face as he spied the name affixed to them. It would have shocked any of his friends who might have seen it, but luckily – or unluckily, depending on your viewpoint – Malvin was alone.
He stood staring at the flowers for a long, long time.
Carole Anne Clancy had managed to find out quite a lot about her quarry in the last half an hour or so.
By judicious use of questioning of the teenage boys who were hanging about, she’d discovered that Marc Linacre lived in a big farmhouse a mile from the village and had arrived in a nifty red sports car with his second wife. His first wife, she knew, had divorced him after his scandalous affair with Olivia Gee and, as a result of this, his second wife now kept him on a very tight leash indeed. She’d also discovered that he was going down to London next week to a gallery opening of his own works. So he was still ‘in’ and hopefully in the mood to discover another model to capture the spirit of the new millennium. She could see her name up in lights now.
All things considered, Carole Anne was feeling optimistic.
In the tea tent, Gordon Trenning gratefully accepted a glass of squash, and gulped it down in one go. Vera Gant watched him, half-amused, half-maternal, and said flatly, ‘You should take that silly jacket off, you know. No wonder you’re gasping for a drink. Here, have another one.’
Gordon, a touch wild-eyed, took a step back, as if afraid the big, cheerful woman would try to physically divest him of his garment, but gratefully accepted the second glass that she had made him.
‘Er, thanks,’ he mumbled.
Monica, sipping her own squash, watched him with open concern.
‘You know, you don’t look at all well,’ Wendy’s gentle voice chipped in, and Gordon glanced across at the local vicar’s wife in surprise. If she’d been a bit fatter and a bit older, she’d have reminded him quite forcefully of his own mother. As it was, she had the same kind of quiet, dulcet tone of voice that his mother had always possessed. Unexpectedly, he felt a lump jump
into his throat, and he quickly blinked back tears.
Good grief, he thought with sudden, bitter self-disgust. I’m coming apart at the seams. Just because of this damned thing in my pocket. Oh why oh why did I ever make it? Let alone bring it here.
‘Mrs Davies,’ he said, something in his voice making all three women in the tent look at him sharply. ‘Is your husband here?’
Vera felt herself bristle with sudden interest. Here was human drama and no mistake. She sidled just a bit closer, her avid ears flapping, whilst Monica felt her sympathies go out to Wendy. As a fellow vicar’s wife, she knew just how much pressure ordinary people could put on you without even trying.
From outside, Daphne Cadge-Hampton’s eccentric and bizarre figure half-stepped into the doorway. Her quick and sharp eyes went over the scene like twin lasers.
‘No, I’m afraid James has already gone to the judging tent,’ Wendy said, biting her lip at the sudden desperation in the younger man’s face. She felt herself crumbling. This was all she needed. Monica, sensing it, took a half step towards her, to see if Wendy might pass the problem over to her.
But Wendy, who would forever know her duty, said gently, ‘Do you want me to go and get him, Dr … er…?’
‘Trenning,’ Gordon said, not surprised that she didn’t know his name. ‘I don’t know. Really, I’m not sure what to do,’ he added, looking at her with the kind of appeal some stray dogs had when you were eating a particularly tasty meat-filled sandwich.
Wendy felt herself surrendering. Yet again, someone in need, she thought despairingly. Always someone else in need. ‘Why don’t we just step outside for a moment?’ she asked softly, coming from around the table with its cheerful teacups and packets of biscuits and gently reaching for him. ‘It’ll be cooler outside.’ She took him firmly by the arm and led him outside, but the hand she put on his arm was not quite steady itself.
Gordon nodded and allowed himself to be led, relieved to have someone else making the decisions for him. He’d been such a damned fool. But here was hope that he could still sort it out.
They side-stepped the countess, who watched them walk away thoughtfully, and instinctively headed towards the now temporarily deserted second-hand bookstall. It was just the sort of place that they could talk without interruption.
Daphne watched them go, and sighed. ‘Damn, where’s the vicar when you need him?’ the old aristocrat mumbled to herself, loudly enough to be overheard.
Monica, who’d been the one to inadvertently do the overhearing, was thinking much the same thing as she once again left the tent and set off to find her own husband. She’d have to have a long talk with Graham about persuading James to take Wendy away for a nice long holiday one day soon.
A quarter of an hour later, at three o’clock, the loud speakers suddenly squawked to attention, and Sir Hugh’s ponderous, never-to-be-mistaken voice called for all flower show judges to make their way to the tent. The judging was to begin.
And in more ways than one.
CHAPTER 7
Carole Anne heard the announcement over the loudspeaker just as she was loosening her diaphanous blouse in order to tie it into a knot at her midriff, thus emphasizing her slender waist. Naturally, she made sure that the resultant knot was strategically placed to draw attention to her attractive shape and for this procedure she had, perhaps not unsurprisingly, earned herself a small but dedicated audience consisting mostly, but not entirely, of teenage boys.
‘Sir Hugh’s got his finger on the pulse, I see,’ a beer-bellied man, stretched out on the grass and turning lobster pink in the sun said sarcastically to his friend, who was stretched out beside him, and likewise changing colour. Both men’s eyes were fixed firmly on Carole Anne.
‘Don’t he always? Still thinks he’s in the flaming army,’ his companion responded morosely.
Carole Anne, now showing even more flesh than she had been before (and secretly feeling just a little bit nervous about it) made a show of casually stepping over the one with the beer-belly and set off determinedly to the sidelines of the football field. She knew her mother would not approve of the new look blouse, and hoped she’d never have to find out about it, but you couldn’t afford not to use every trick in the book if you wanted to get ahead. Or so she’d read.
Marc Linacre was obviously something of a soccer fan, she mused, since he’d been watching the games in progress ever since the first two teams had started playing.
She carefully sidled up to the lone man. It was no coincidence that she’d waited until his wife had gone off to the tea tent for refreshments. She wasn’t sure that the wife would understand that, for her, it was strictly business, and that she had absolutely no designs on her husband.
Hearing a repeated call for the attendance of the judges over the loud hailer, Carole Anne glanced casually across at the flower tent, and the tall, erect, military-looking figure standing in the entrance. Not so long ago, she’d noticed him at the tea tent, not going in, but instead slipping around the side and disappearing behind the back. And when, almost straight away, a man in a suit had done exactly the same thing she was sure that they must both be using that area to have a crafty pee. Talk about gross.
Unless, of course, they were having a secret assignation, she thought, the idea of a clandestine tryst perking her up somewhat. Not that the old man looked the type. Still, Carole Anne thought judiciously, you never can tell.
But other people’s peccadilloes, interesting though they might be, were not her top priority just then, and she quickly snapped her mind back to the project in hand. Marc Linacre had noticed her. Finally!
The celebrity photographer was in his fifties, she gauged astutely, but careful grooming had made him look much younger. Which was not surprising – a man such as this must know all the tricks of the trade when it came to making the human form look good.
She was careful to look surprised, as if only just now noticing his presence, then tossed her head, making sure that her long blonde hair fell around her shoulders and turned slightly away. Playing hard to get was still the best way to get a man’s attention, wasn’t it? she wondered uneasily. Or was that so yesterday now? She cast him a quick look out of the corner of her eye to see how well the ploy had worked.
Damn, he was watching the football again!
Nothing loath, Carole Anne sidled a few steps closer and said casually, ‘Who’s winning?’
Marc Linacre shot her a startled look and automatically looked over his shoulder. But for once his wife’s inimical glare was nowhere to be seen. ‘Er, the home team, I think,’ he said.
She took yet another tiny crab-like step closer, trying to feel confident and at ease. Instead, she was uncomfortably aware that she was beginning to perspire, just a little bit. She tried to push aside her sudden attack of nerves. ‘Do I know you?’ she blurted out, then felt herself flush. How trite was that? She forced a laugh. ‘I mean, your face is kinda familiar. Are you an actor or something?’ she tried again.
Far from looking flattered, his eyes took on that particularly haunted look of a man who knew when he was in trouble. ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he said hastily.
Snapping her fingers, and hoping she wasn’t overdoing it, Carole Anne grinned broadly. ‘I’ve got it. You’re that famous photographer. I read an interview you did once for … now what was it. Cosmopolitan?’
Marc shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ and suddenly bellowed at a nearby striker to pass the damned ball to his unmarked friend.
Carole Anne hid a groan. This was obviously not going to be as easy a nut to crack as she’d thought. Behind her, unobserved, Angela Linacre emerged from the tent, two cups of tea in her hand.
‘I read a lot of magazines, of course,’ Carole Anne continued blithely, ‘well, when you’re a model, you have to. You know, to keep up to date with everything.’
‘Hmm.’
‘You used to be somebody big in the fashion world, didn’t you?’ she added, figuring that a bit of reverse psychology couldn’t h
urt. Perhaps she could sting his vanity and make him admit to his past greatness?
‘Hmm. I used to be,’ he gritted, feeling himself break out into a fine sweat. His wife had a very sharp tongue when it came to expressing her opinions about the nubile young women that haunted the fashion industry.
‘So do you think photographers nowadays would be able to spot another Olivia Gee in the crowd?’ she asked, making it clear with a faultlessly worshipping look, that she considered that only he, the great Marc Linacre, had the ability to spot such winners.
Men could never resist flattery, Carole Anne knew. Even her mother said so.
A lock of long blonde hair fell over her arm. Carelessly, she lifted a hand to toss it back.
Marc Linacre gulped.
‘My husband doesn’t do models.’ An icy voice suddenly cut across the grunting and yelling of the male voices on the pitch, and Carole Anne spun around. The woman in front of her was dressed in a cream blouse and a long scarlet skirt. Dark hair going grey at the temples matched the dark brown eyes that glared at her like two currants in a suet pudding.
Carole Anne did a gulp of her own. ‘Oh, hello,’ she managed weakly.
‘Darling, your tea,’ Angela said, handing over a cup to her bemused husband, who was doing his best to look as innocent as he actually was.
Which was never a good idea.
Angela cast a ‘get lost’ look at the beautiful teenager that not even Carole Anne could ignore, and with a blush that she forced into a sniff and a flounce, Carole Anne walked off, head held high. But definitely defeated.
But, she thought, her face flaming, she wasn’t giving up just yet.
On the other side of the field, her mother and stepfather, in a state of blissful ignorance as to their daughter’s endeavours, entered the flower show tent with twin smiles of delight. Here every other flap was turned back, and a large gap was missing in the roof, allowing a pleasantly cooling breeze to circulate inside. Added to this rows and rows of colourful flowers, some giving off a sweet scent, and the scene was pretty enough to paint.
